


We Finish Each Other's Sandwiches

by Hansotsi (Karmula)



Category: Frozen (Disney Movies)
Genre: But there IS something seriously wrong with me, Crack, F/M, Food Kink, Food Sex, There is nothing serious about this fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-10
Updated: 2014-08-10
Packaged: 2020-12-14 07:15:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,606
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21011867
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Karmula/pseuds/Hansotsi
Summary: Hans fixes himself a midnight snack of pickle-and-Southern-Isles-sausage sandwich with the assistance of his wife, Anna.





	We Finish Each Other's Sandwiches

**Author's Note:**

> Originally written in 2014, edited and reuploaded in 2019.

Hans was starving.

It was past dinnertime and he was perusing the pantry, as his evening meal had not been enough to satisfy him. And apparently it would have been rude of him, the _King _of Arendelle, to ask for a sandwich after they had just eaten; Anna had said so, berating him immediately after he had voiced the idea.

So he had sat quietly, ears ringing with her scolding, until she had cried: “If you really _are_ still hungry after all that, why don’t you fix yourself some noodles?” at which point he had decided his wife was obviously barking mad. In what universe was a bowl of _noodles_ better than a sandwich?

He bent over, rummaging through the pantry with a smirk, rubbing a hand over his churning belly.

What his dear, deranged wife didn’t know wouldn’t hurt her.

Slowly, methodically, he gathered his ingredients, hand-picking them for optimum sandwich-building potential. Ordinarily, he would have considered such menial work beneath him – but nothing was beneath him when it came to sandwiches. Besides, he was _starving_. As if to emphasise this point, his stomach gave a particularly loud growl.

See? Starving.

And what better food than a sandwich, carefully constructed by the world’s finest royal, to satisfy his hunger?

He selected his ingredients carefully; a sphere of crunchy, fresh-looking iceberg lettuce, several slices of their finest Swiss cheese, a single sliced gherkin, a jar of creamy Dijon mustard, and a dense, dark, seeded bread roll.

Nodding in satisfaction, he closed the pantry door, retreating to the kitchen and leaning against the counter, where he spread out his ingredients. However, after a moment’s deliberation, he realised he was missing something. He tapped his chin thoughtfully, and after a moment, it came to him.

Meat!

What kind of a sandwich would this be without meat?

As he stared morosely at his empty bread roll, its buns firm and dark and soft, Hans had a wicked idea, and hefted himself quickly onto the counter, deciding there wasn’t a moment to lose if he was to put his plan into action.

Perched on top of the kitchen counter, Hans twisted the cap off the jar of mustard with a grunt, chest heaving, his clammy fingers slippery on the chilled metal. Soon its thick, pungent aroma filled the air, and the prince took a deep, shuddering breath. Letting the lid clatter to the floor, he slipped a single gloved finger past its rim, for once uncaring about his state of cleanliness (or lack thereof).

He pumped his digit slowly in and out of the jar, coating it in a copious amount of mustard. His stomach churned, growling loudly in anticipation. Withdrawing the meat he had chosen for his sandwich – Southern Isles sausage – from its cloth prison, he painted its surface with the stuff, and felt a shiver spark up his spine as he massaged the aromatic condiment into the meaty shaft.

One hand clenched tightly around his slick length, Hans began to haphazardly assemble his sandwich, stuffing it with shreds of hastily torn lettuce leaves, slippery-moist gherkin slices and slices of holey Swiss cheese that crumbled beneath this touch.

“Nnghh – _ahhh_–”

With a trembling hand, he aligned himself with the bread roll’s tight entrance. His greased-up sausage slid easily inside, and once he had gained momentum he began to thrust, gripping so tightly onto the counter for balance with his free fist that his knuckles turned white. The seeded, textured dense flesh of the bread roll grated teasingly along his ribbed length, and he could feel heat pooling deliciously in his lower belly. Cool leaves of lettuce slid along his underside, incredibly pleasant against his feverish skin.

He rocked his hips enthusiastically into his newfound lover, maintaining a brisk pace with his thrusts. Lettuce crunched and crackled, and his moans were half-lost amongst the squelching of meat into mustard. The sound aroused him even more, drove him quite nearly to his peak; he was teetering at the edge, ready to plunge into an abyss of indescribable pleasure when –

“_Hans!?_”

Both sets of cheeks blazing with an intense mixture of excitement and shame, Hans stilled his hips as he locked eyes with his wife, her own baby blues wide with horror.

“What are you – is that a – Oh, my God!” Anna’s hands flew to her mouth as her eyes left his and dropped southwards.

“Anna,” Hans called, desperate to explain – and for the second time that afternoon, had an idea. “Anna, dear, please, wait – don’t you remember what we said the night we met?”

She swallowed heavily and shook her head.

Hans began to gently rock his hips again, settling into a gentle, rhythmic pace as he smirked. “I do.” He cleared his throat and spoke again in a lilting, sing-song voice. “We finish each other’s–?” He broke off and cocked one eyebrow.

“Sandwiches,” she breathed, and brought her hands slowly away from her mouth as she took a cautious step towards him. He nodded and held out one hand towards his wife, crooking his fingers, still clad in his soiled, mustard-stained glove, in a beckon. Each move was calculated, tentative, small, so as not to frighten her away.

She seemed unperturbed by the state of his glove – at least, no more than she had been initially – and continued to approach, if still a little warily.

Anna kneeled on the cool kitchen tile before him, and, under her husband’s watchful eye, slid one childlike hand around the bread roll and squeezed experimentally. Hans gasped, clutching even more tightly to the countertop and keening into the strawberry blonde’s touch.

“Nnghh… yes, Anna, just like that, _God _yes…”

Anna slid the bun along his length, pressing it firm against his base. His tip, smeared with mustard and glistening with the beads of his pre-come, burst from the end, and she wrapped her lips around it eagerly, feeling a familiar gnawing in her core and heat between her thighs that completely eradicated all doubts she had had about performing this strange act from her mind.

God, she was _famished_.

Hans flashed her a wicked, somewhat condescending grin. “Aren’t you glad I didn’t make noodles, Anna?”

She flushed, bright as a tomato, and nodded stiffly, unable to speak with her mouth full.

He frowned mockingly, cupping a hand around his ear. “I’m sorry, I didn’t quite catch that.”

With a _pop _she removed her lips from his shaft, her breathing heavy, almost laboured as she spoke. “I’m so glad… that you didn’t… make noodles, Hans,” she managed, gasping.

“Because what’s better than a limp, tasteless noodle?” he prompted, dissatisfied.

“Your doodle,” she amended. “Your doodle is _much _better than a noodle.”

“That’s right, Anna, pet,” Hans murmured, stroking his wife’s strawberry locks lovingly, uncaring of the mustard streaks that appeared there as he did so. She made a noise of happiness, nuzzling into his hand and purring faintly, eyes hooded with pleasure. Then his hand stilled, and his brow furrowed. “Anna?”

“Mmm – yes, Hans?”

“Why have you stopped?”

Anna opened her eyes, glancing up at him in confusion. Her husband leaned forward, grunting slightly with the effort, and brushed his lips against the outer shell of his wife’s ear.

“My pickle needs to be tickled, Anna,” he whispered huskily, and she shivered at his warm breath, tightening her grip around the exposed tip of his shaft. He smiled against her feverish skin, withdrawing and resuming his position on the bench top, head tipped back and mouth parted, a moan falling from his lips as Anna resumed her own position.

She pressed her tongue flat against his underside, worming it in between a leaf of lettuce and suckling at the sweet mustard coating. Panting, Anna worked her tongue around his circumference, prying off of him a sliver of cheese that had half-melted in the heat and swallowing heavily.

He was close; she could smell it radiating off him in stifling, insistent waves, feel it in the tense, tight bundle of nerves building at his base, see it, out of the corner of her eye, in the beads of sweat rolling down his sac. The strawberry blonde removed her lips, darting out a tongue to catch one of these beads before it could fall, and tightened her grip on the bread roll, grinding its dense, seeded flesh against that of her husband.

“Anna!” he gasped; she squeezed tighter, pumping the roll along his length. A thick, white sliver of lettuce – the heart – crunched and broke under her relentless hand, and that was it.

His knees jerked as he came, head tilted back as a deep, guttural groan emanated from his throat and his hips lurched with the release as he added a second condiment to his sandwich. Panting, fringe glued to his forehead with sweat, he grinned weakly, spent.

“Wow, Anna – you really know how to beat the meat,” he gasped out, cupping his wife’s face with a gentle hand, clad in a sweat-soaked glove. He brushed his thumb across her cheek affectionately, swiping at a smear of mustard at the corner of her mouth before leaning down to press a deep, bruising kiss to her lips. Anna responded, reaching up to tangle her hands in his damp auburn locks, forcing his lips apart with an insistent tongue –

But Hans pulled away, smirking at her pout.

“Hans!” she whined, attempting to lock their lips together in another kiss, but he held her at bay, gesturing towards the bun still wrapped around his now-flaccid length.

“Now, now, Anna,” he murmured, removing the sandwich and sinking his teeth into it with relish.

“We haven’t yet finished each other’s sandwiches.”


End file.
